Dear Son A,

I was just talkin’ to your Granddaddy on the phone.  He called to talk to you, but you were rather confused by the melodious tones coming from my new phone (yes, we’re all getting adjusted to the slimness as well as the elective reception - Ma has bad phone karma - sigh), so he chatted with me instead.

“So are you going to write a Happy Birthday entry on your blog?”

“I’m uploading photos so that I can download photos and then link to photos.”

“Well, I always enjoy reading those entries.”

“Yeah, since they’re like the *only* thing I write on this blog?”

“Well, yes.” 

Yes, one year ago today I was sitting in a really comfy bed watching the Food Network staring out at my nice view and glancing down at my slumbering bundle of cuddliness.

No longer wondering if you were going to be a ginormous baby or like those creatures from the “Alien” movies (cause, man, you did flips), but pondering who this small bebe bundle named Abel Anders would be.  I had some inklings:  you seemed to dig showers, responded to your brother’s voice (but really, who doesn’t), loved your dad’s touch, and would not come out (even though my body was letting you know that your lease was up) until you were darn good and ready.

That dark hair, boy:  where did you hide it?  Some babies lose all their hair and it comes in another color.  You shiftily shed it so that none of us noticed until one day - hey, he’s blonde!

So today marks your first trip around the sun:  how did you enjoy it?  Was it everything you hoped for and more?  I know it was for me.

Except for today.  Today I had Grand Plans.  Plans that entailed us having a wonderful family outing to a great family-fun type place and enjoying each other’s company and sunshine and rainbows and fuzzy little bunnies trailing behind us.

But y’all didn’t seem to get that message that everyone should be in the Best Of Shape.  Your pappy popped an ear drum.  Your brother seems to be exploring the deeper realms of his emotional range focusing mostly on the melancholy side.  And you, well, you picked up a lovely little stomach bug that likes to help you return the edible funds we deposit in your belly (i.e. you’ve been spewing).  Finally the bug has moved out, but not before convincing you that solid food is bad, nursing is GREAT, and losing weight before your Well Child appointment is a fantastic idea.  Dad weighed you last night, and dude, we’re not gonna be able to turn your carseat around until you start packing on the pounds.  Don’t make me start whipping you up raw egg high calorie weight lifter shakes:  I prefer to use my blender for the fruits cause they’re so much prettier.

Instead today we all went to the DMV.  Wee!  To get tags for Mama’s new-to-her car so that people won’t keep staring at her with the “stupid Washington driver” stare - mean Oregonians.  So you and your brother could be well behaved until our number was called and then we had to fill out a form and then the person helping us decided to go on break but not tell us so that you and your brother could start falling apart while your father stood and stood and stood until finally someone mentioned that she went on break and maybe she could help us in a bit.  Let’s just say it’s amazing how many teeny tiny pieces a Kashi granola bar can be broken into when trying to distract small people for the longest period of time.

And then we went to the phone store.  Wee!  To pick Ma up a phone that had not been banged into oblivion as well as a phone that might hold a signal longer than it takes to say “hold on, I gotta go plug in the phone before it di. . . ” click.  And graciously you and your brother decided Ma needed to get her workout in, so you took on the role as personal trainer, grabbing the bluetooth headsets off the wall while your brother tackled the higher perched phones.  Expensive phones.  Like Iphones.  Which one of them now contains pictures of my butt because Ma didn’t turn around when someone yelled, “Say cheese!”

And then we went to a good place.  A happy place.  A place full of your friend:  carbs.  Your Pappy said, “You really want to go there?” to which I exclaimed, “BREAD!  They have BREAD!  Little A Loves Bread!”  One of the foods you deem acceptable to eat this week.  We went to the new Great Harvest Bread Company store.  Oh, walking in was simply heaven, but then to receive a free piece of warm-from-the-oven bread.  For all the troops.  As well as getting a coloring sheet for your brother to color to get a free giant cookie.  And then to come home with two loaves - one of cinnamon chip, one of whole wheat apple crunch - ?!!!?  Well, that *is* pure goodness.

We came home.  You napped.  Not well.  You pooped.  And leaked.  And screamed.  And woke your brother up.  So we all loaded back into the car to go to your other home, a.k.a. Freddies, so that JJ could pick out a toy for you to have, a.k.a. he can play with while you play with the packaging.

Since you’ve been on an odd fast (you really should read the resources from our faith gathering, because your fasting is a bit on the wonky, and not-so-spiritual-but-rather-moody, side), I wasn’t quite sure what to give you as celebratory fodder (i.e. cake).  Your brother had carrot cake muffins with cream cheese frosting that powered him on through to the next year:  sugar.high.  I didn’t feel like dealing with that if you weren’t going to keep my birthday offering to you, so instead I thought of things you like:  bananas.  oatmeal.  cookies.  Why not put them all together?  I did.  And you enjoyed.

Then we had to give the toy a test drive.  And boy howdy, you still dig the water, Little Man.

Really.

I’m not kidding.

Thanks for sharing the bath and the laughts with us, Half Pint.

Thanks for sharing your laughter and your joy and your love with us.  Most mornings your brother greets you with, “GMornin, Sunshine!  Nice to see you!  Have sweet dweams?”  You are my sunshine.  It’s truly been delightful to see you.  And I hope your sweet dreams continue on during your next trip around the sun.

I love you, son.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 1 Comment »

Dear Son A,

Congrats:  you are officially 11 months old.  Past two hands.  On your way to a year.  (Only one more month of the jubblies:  woot!).  And man, kid:  you are a hoot.

I’ve always heard parents sharing how they pushed their first kids into things:  into eating solids, into crawling and walking quicker, into going to school sooner, into becoming the president of a country.  But the second kid?  Not so much.  Still wanna eat pureed sweet potatoes and wear your pull ups until you’re ten?  Enh:  it’s your choice.

I don’t think we had that choice with your older brother:  he kinda took off running and drags us along.  I think he might be yelling “Catch up!” if we could hear him, but he’s run so far ahead, and my ears are plugged into listening to Lynn Rossetto Kasper croon about caramelizing pears, so I’m in a bit of a daze.

I just forget.  The other day I realized that at this age your brother was toddling/walking/sliding down stairs.  You:  not so much.  But it doesn’t seem abnormal:  it seems like to see a person your size running around would just be odd.

You’ve started balancing, and it’s hilarious, to you and everyone around you.  Today you crawled up to me while I was sitting on the floor, sucked into my stinkin’ book (literary meth, I tell you:  why must it have come in from the library with only a two week checkout while the hubby is gone for one of those weeks?!!?) waiting to go pick your brother up from school (although if I had known that he’d come home covered in pink marker from having decorated the table with his most quiet compatriot Master Sears, and then proceed to dump his water bottle in his room, and tear his calendar off the wall, and play on the computer without permission, and watch tv without permission, and scatter both UNO and dominoes all over the floor, and throw tantrum after tantrum when told he had to pick them up, and take a tub of clothes in the garage and dump them all over the floor, and take you out into the garage, and strip off all his clothes, and then put a pair of pants and a pair of underwear in front of him saying that he was indeed dressed and try to go outside to pee, all between the time of 11:45 and 2:15, I might have just kept reading my book), you pulled yourself up on me, let go, stood, laughing and clapping.  Which made you fall over.  But then you threw your hands into the air and spun in a circle:  because hey - it’s great to be able to stand.

We have yet to find a carb you don’t like.  Correction:  we have yet to find a fruit and/or grain you don’t like.  Green items are usually met with a firm shake of the head back and forth.  And then turning red.  And then yelling.  But after watching your multimedia show, you submit to the greens.  Most of the time.  With the hopes that a multigrain piece of toast or a little swedish pancake may be lurking at the bottom of the bowl.

And you like toys.  You play with toys.  And finger games.  And peekaboo.  This is such a foreign concept to me.  For years I’ve wondered why I was supposed to know all the verses to the farmer and the dell:  was it just a trick to see how doofy parents will make themselves look?  But you like those songs.  They make you happy.  You have a favorite book of baby faces showing different emotions, and when we show you a certain face (known as “your friend”), you throw your arms up and spin.  Or you giggle.  Or you grab the book and flip it back and forth looking for the ever elusive friend.  Who is showing the emotion:  happy.

You also love to play peekaboo.  Today at the store, which is being torn up because the deli is getting a makeover, which for some reason meant that they had to move all the shelves in the health food section to line up against the deli as well as put other shelves in areas that were relatively empty and a nice breather from the constant barrage of “buy our product!   you know you want to!  be american!  CONSUME!”), you would see people, mostly in hard hats, and you would bury your face in your hands.  And then drop them.  And grin.  Of course, not every one *knew* that you were playing peekaboo and that their proper response was to drop everything and put on a dopey grin and exclaim very excitedly “There’s Little A!”, but if they noticed, they thought you were cute nonetheless.

Now, I have to let you know:  your lease on the jubblies is about to run out.  I think you have an inkling that something’s in the works, because all of a sudden you’ve decided you neeeeeeeed them.  Like your dad has fed you and I come home and pick you up and experience a face plant in my clavicle.  Or you just decide to confirm that there is something inside my shirt.  In a public place.  So everyone else can confirm as well:  I guess Hebrew law does say you need to have at least two witnesses.  Sorry, bub:  all good things must come to an end, as well as things that are really annoying (like experiencing clogged ducts, which I am right now, because see above for how pappy is out of town and brother is on a rampage and I am the Mother Martyr Supreme of All Christendom).

So please.  Keep balancing.  And reminding me that it’s so stinkin cool that you can balance.  And that sometimes that’s all we need to do.

That, and run to Dairy Queen for some sugar free Dilly Bars.  Yes, there’s two in the fridge, but me thinks that’s not going to be enough.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | No Comments »

Dear Son A,

Congrats: you are now two full hands of months - 10! That means you’ve been out of the womb room longer than you were in it - nice work. Some days I’ve wondered if you would make it this far, what with your brother’s enjoyment of playing steamroller and all. Really, how do younger siblings make it without incurring significant damage before they can fight back? I wonder if God uses a little stronger material for version 2.0s and beyond, or if He simply doubles the number of guardian angels on duty. Which, if they outnumber the ones alloted to your brother, means we have about a legion in this household alone.

If you will note in the above picture, you are not sleeping. Nope: the place of slumber has turned into a romper room for you and your brother. Which, honestly, I don’t mind when your naptime ends just as my need-to-lay-on-the-couch-and-watch-Rachael-Ray-be-productive-cause-I-got-nuthin-left time begins. But then you do things like this:

Aw, aren’t you sweet.

And your brother does things like this:

Yes, he’s sleeping. In a bed. In *MY* bed. On your pappy’s side. And no, that’s not JJ’s bunny. Or your bunny. Or hubby’s bunny. We’ll just leave it at that.

OR he’s doing this:

Let’s get a close up for those who have fuzzy eyeballs:

Yes, your brother is sleeping with his favorite thing in the world: LegoTableTVStarWarsGame. Huh? So one day I went to the mailbox, and two packages from amazon were sitting in our package slot. Two packages for me! I was shocked! And then bothered: did I accidentally order stuff that I put in my cart with the intention of holding off and ordering later but usually forgetting about it until it’s not on sale anymore and so I don’t need to buy it? Nope: your uncle Bubba sent us goodies - a pretty for the mama, and a pretty for the rest of y’all.

It has transformed our lives.

No longer do I hear the hum of "the wheels on the bus": I hear "the death march". Calls for "R2, where are you? I can’t hold on! I can’t hold on!" echo throughout the house. All objects can and should be used with "swoosh" noises. Which includes the legs of a lego table that JJ received from Gran and Granddaddy at Christmas (note the sleepless crib picture: they’re there).

So we have a lego table. And we have lego Star Wars. And it’s played on the TV. So now it’s LegoTableTVStarWarsGame. Easy peasy, eh? [Okay, so Star Wars isn't the only infectious thing in our household].

The other day it was sunny. Big deal, you might say. But oh, how it’s been gray and blecky outside. We haven’t been smoted like the rest of the country with high temps and the snow and high temps and snow, but the ceaseless gray does begin to wear one’s spirit down like in the swamps of sadness .

Sensing that it might not last, I quickly threw you into some Happy Sunny Day clothes and whipped y’all outside to document that winter may indeed come to an end.

Note the placement of the dog toy in your hand. And somehow Jacks lets you keep it, simply licking your face as if to say, "Please, puppy, gimme gimme gimme?"

You complied and decided instead to take your incredibly dexterous fingers and pick up teeny tiny, almost unnoticeable except to the naked eye of the 10-month old who could easily choke on things rocks.

Maybe you’ll grow up to be a rock biter (you have to go to about 4.00).

Okay, so here you might notice that you’re a bit drippy and that there’s a bonk on your noggin (apparently the guardian angel was taking an angelic fair trade organic coffee break). Your Gran might not have noticed this, but here - you’re flapping. Just like your mama did when she was your age.

Because on sunny days, you just have to flap.

You are my Sunshine Boy.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | No Comments »

So a while ago there was this great band called “Blame It on John”, and they had a lovely ditty that probably was requested too many times by bawdy BIOJ junkies, but it was just so darn catchy.  It was called “The Stalker Song” and had a chorus that went something along these lines:

“Called to say hi.

No answer.

Time passes by.

No answer.

Called you again.

No answer.

Called all your friends.

No answer.”

I often find it running through my head when the options I’m weighing, or rather the options that are having an epic Star Wars “light saver” (thank you, JJ) rip-roaring battle-to-the-death extravaganza in my head, don’t seem to have a clear winner (ala current Democratic presidential ticket):  No Answer.

My current “no answer” situation is in regards to food.  Ah, food:  that thing that we kinda sorta need to live, but according to current reports is making us sick or moody or fat or something other than svelte and healthy and functional.

For instance, when I look at a bunch of bananas, do I see a bunch of yellow, potentially ripe yummy sweet food?  Nope:  I see a scale weighing the cost of regular versus organic - can we afford the organic?  But if we don’t eat the organic, am I willingly poisoning my children?  And now not only is there organic, but there’s also Fair Trade.  So, I can either be cheap and support both poisoning my children as well as corporations that are supporting oppressive totalitarian regimes, or I can buy Fair Trade Organic Bananas.  Which I have to get into my SUV and drive a considerable distance to find, thereby increasing the cost *and* my carbon footprint.

No Answer.  Unless the answer is we don’t eat bananas.

Which would be fine, if I didn’t live with a picky preschoolers.  The poor monkey comes from a genetic pool of picky eaters - it’s not his fault that he’s a SuperTaster (Hubby tried to prove history wrong - that man *can* live on bread alone, and my brother used to order pepperoni pizza and pick the pepperonis off).  But I have a hard enough time feeding him as it is.

Breakfast:  peanut butter and jam sandwich.  Although the bread is whole white wheat, it has preservatives.  Peanut butter:  all natural, but not organic, Adams.  Jam:  sugar-free, but not organic.

Lunch:  Bread (see above) and cheddar cheese which apparently not only needs to be organic, but also needs to come from grass-fed cows because grain-fed cows have all sorts of bad things in their system from eating grain.  Which apparently humans aren’t supposed to be eating either.  Followed up with fruit (see above above).

Dinner:  Chicken Nugget Dinosaurs from Foster Farms which say that their whole grain, but we all know it’s just to ease the consciences of mamas like me.  And then there’s the stigma from all the moms who are marching to the “Don’t Feed Your Children Chicken Nuggets You’re A Horrible Parent For Not Getting Them To Like Eating Vegan Pad Thai” drum.  I hate hearing that drum:  I want to kick it.  Fruit (again, look up).  Crackers - oh, the transfats!  Oh, the wheat!

Snack:  Yogurt - a mixture of plain and fruit-sweetened-with-Splenda.  Again, grain-fed cows; artificial sweeteners.

And then there’s the packaging that’s leaching contaminants into our food and cluttering our landfills.  NO ANSWER.  Sigh.

I would like to turn in my badge of being the Manager of Consumption in this household until the world is perfect and safe and we can all live in Bubbleland - because there’s never ever any trouble here in Bubbleland.

And it really makes having some Ritz crackers topped with summer sausage and squeeze cheese with a side of fully-sugared grape koolaid sound REALLY good (a staple on the backpacking trips of my childhood when all I had to think about was what doll I could take with me in my backpack and which tree I got to pee behind).  Yum.

Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | 9 Comments »

Dear Son A,

Congrats! You are now nine months (and one day) old. Soon you will have spent more time out of the womb than in the womb: kinda crazy to think about. Today at your nine month well child appointment we noticed a growth on our beloved nurse Kim: yep, she’s having one of your kind - in June!! A little girl. She told us we should have another one, to try for a girl. I scoffed and said that’s no reason to have kids: it doesn’t look like it necessarily worked for the Osmonds (seriously: that many boys, and the last one a girl who now has a career pushing scary looking dolls - not healthy).

Yep, you had your nine month well child appointment today. And Beloved Dr. Tami says you are well, despite my feelings that you might be otherwise. Because kid: you’re little. Back down to the 10th percentile. A whole seventeen pounds and six ounces. Your cousin weighed more at his four month appointment! Dr. Tami says it’s due to your incessant bouncing. And we all know, you do tend to bounce. This past weekend I could’ve hired you out as a personal trainer: you had people bouncing you with their arms and their legs, running you around in circles, tossing you in the air or dropping you — all in an attempt to keep you happy. Because, man, nothing lights up the room like that grin of yours.

Which Beloved Dr. Tami noted immediately. “This kid cracks me up! He’s going to be so much trouble: he’s just going to flash that grin and get out of anything! He needs to be a middle child - that way he’ll lose some of that clout. Middle children are notorious for getting into trouble.” Hmmm, now who was a middle child, doctor?

So we’re working on feeding you more. Because apparently, even though you aren’t a fan of the pooing process, you need solids. This week JJ and I whipped up some tasty green peas for you, followed by blueberries and bananas. When you see the brightly colored IKEA bowl coming towards you, your mouth starts warming up for the swallowing process - you wouldn’t want to be caught unprepared.

You also have become somewhat of a food snob. I broke into the camp’s kitchen this weekend to raid their cereal bar stash for some cheerios (which is why they probably don’t dig having Quakes at the camp all that much: we tend to think we own the place). I fed you one, and your face scrunched up. You kept eating, but with each O, you let it be known that you recognized they were not Cascadian Farms Organic Whole Grain Purely Os. Soon you’ll be telling me the reason you didn’t drink out of bottles or sippy cups is because you were uncertain of the BPA levels in the plastics. Stay away from those parenting safety blogs, I tell you!

Since the recent posts have been full of you paparazzi experiences, I’ll sign off with some video of you. The first one is of your sleeping on the floor before you had dinner: I like how your first reaction is to reach for the pacifier - my little junkie. The second video occurred while I was aquajogging my little brains out and your pappy was trying to get through the evening. And yes, those are your regular organic o’s, oh consumer of the finest of foods.

Thanks for being my daily sunshine, Cheerio-boy.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

This weekend I went to the coast. I packed up my suitcase, filled a bag with edible goodies (well, edible for others - molasses cookies, choco/butterscotch cookies, peanut-butter filled pretzels — I went wild on my whole wheat tortillas and string cheese - par-tay!), unearthed my sleeping bag, and loaded up into my friend’s mini (van) for a time of laughter, fellowship, worship, and aloneness.

As alone as one can be when one also brings along one’s wiggly-worm with suction-cup-appendages son.

I took Little A.

This is his second trip to the coast. Last time I also brought our personal assistant (a.k.a. Hubby), but he couldn’t come this time because he doesn’t have the right bits and pieces for a Women’s Retreat (thank HEAVENS - for the bits and pieces part, not the not being able to come part). My friends all swore it would be okay: in fact, they threatened never to speak to me again if I didn’t come, which would mean the only verbal interaction I would get forever and ever would be with my children, and that’s just not a thought that sounds appealing at the moment.

But see, they don’t understand. They don’t know how Little A jumps faster and faster in his jumperoo when he thinks I’m going to pick them up, and then pounds and wails when I walk by. They don’t know how I have to hide in the kitchen from him at night while he’s with Hubby, because if I pass by and he glimpses me, he wails just like the local firefighter alarm call. And they’re not familiar with a) my children’s imperative need for naps and 2) their seemingly inability to sleep unless they are in Lock Down mode (i.e. limbs pinned within an inch of their lives).

They know now.

Actually, it was a wonderful weekend. I enjoyed hanging out with folks I don’t see on a regular basis. I cracked up watching friends throw around marshmellows while blindfolded. I inwardly laughed seeing my friends, after a long talk about natural foods and picking on certain things that contained too many transfats or high fructose corn syrup or not truly organic enough elements, eat oreos and gushers and gummi bears.

And Little A and I bonded. Folks held him, of course. They needed baby fixes: he was helpful in that their baby needs soon passed as he squirmed and craned to see me and jumped and jumped and jumped in their arms. But people stepped in despite his cuddlylessness and offered to take him he believed that if he were to stop pounding on me that the world would cease to function. And I feel a little more confident in my ability to handle him without Hubby (plus my arms got a lovely workout) — but boy howdy, was I glad to see Hubby when I got home, for many reasons.

Checking my email Monday morning I received a delightful message titled “no doubt written just for you” from a friend who seems to know me and my little ones so well. And so I’ll share this blessing with you, even if you can’t relate at the moment, because my oh my: how my children really enable my heart to walk (or jump) about on a different set of legs.

“Day Bath” by Debra Spencer from Pomegranate. © Hummingbird Press, 2004.
Reprinted with permission.

Day Bath
for my son

Last night I walked him back and forth,
his small head heavy against my chest,
round eyes watching me in the dark,
his body a sandbag in my arms.
I longed for sleep but couldn’t bear his crying
so bore him back and forth until the sun rose
and he slept. Now the doors are open,
noon sunlight coming in,
and I can see fuchsias opening.
Now we bathe. I hold him, the soap
makes our skins glide past each other.
I lay him wet on my thighs, his head on my knees,
his feet dancing against my chest,
and I rinse him, pouring water
from my cupped hand.
No matter how I feel, he’s the same,
eyes expectant, mouth ready,
with his fat legs and arms,
his belly, his small solid back.
Last night I wanted nothing more
than to get him out of my arms.
Today he fits neatly
along the hollow my thighs make,
and with his fragrant skin against mine
I feel brash, like a sunflower.

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | No Comments »

When JJ was little, we took pictures:  lots of pictures.  Because, like all new parents, we thought, “How unique!  How quaint!  Our baby does things that *no* other baby does.  And we will document every minute little bit and then share it with others, because they will care.”  Now, we know better.

One time we sat taking pictures of JJ making faces, which actually turned out quite amusing, because he made about as many faces as Jim Carrey and his elastico-visage.  So the other day, feeling a little guilty that Little A hasn’t had quite the photog treatment, I flashed him till his little eyeballs should’ve fallen out.  The results:

Followed by:

And then we have:

Not to be outdone by:

Oh, and this one cracked me up:

Because it was so different from this one:

And then we thought we’d shake it up a bit:

This one, aw man, so crazy:

Wait for it, wait for it:

I know it’s a bit edgy, but:

And Tyra told us this one is fierce:

He was really starting to feel the burn:

But after much coaxing and affirmations that he’s gorgeous and his profile is just like Twiggy’s:

Whew:  that was exhausting.  I don’t know how he does it.  He finally sped away in his SUV, managed to run over my toe, and made his way to Starbucks for some puffs.

A day in the life:  I tell ya.

Little A Adventures | 6 Comments »

Thank you mamas, Romans, countrymen who responded to my last post. I’ve treasured your kind words, honest sharings, and encouragement (and honestly, to know that I’m not the only Crabby Patty Mama out there really helps).

I remember an episode from the first season of Desperate Housewives which I watched because I loved Lynette (mother of crazy crazy boys). At the time I was a mother of a four month yowling ball of needs, and in the midst of sleep-deprived brain-dumbness it felt like my other daily duty was simply *not* to be the most irritable person on the face of the earth (the scorecard for that war was not pretty). In this storyline Lynette was dealing with having left a job she loved and felt competent at to stay home with four kids four and under. She was trying to meet all their needs and her hubby’s needs and stay on top of the housework, etc. Another mother let her in on a secret: the way she stay so together was by taking her son’s ritalin (gave her tons of energy to clean and organize all day and night long). Lynette tried it but became a basketcase. At one point she broke down and just left. Her friends found her crying outside somewhere and starting telling her stories of how hard they had it, especially when their kids were young, but they tried to hide it. Lynette’s one question: “Why didn’t you tell me?  Why did it have to get this bad before you told me about yourselves?” Why do women keep things like struggles and hardships to ourselves, suffer alone?

I remember sitting in the recliner, nursing JJ, and crying, nodding my head: “Yes! Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be this hard?” Perhaps they did, and I didn’t listen. Perhaps I needed to go through it myself. But perhaps we don’t like to share the hard stuff for fear of others’ judgments. I don’t want to live in fear; and I want to vow to try and share out of love.

So today I share this. Because if I could, I’d buy it for y’all. And hope that my stories, good/bad/otherwise, might sound as nice as Peter Gabriel being blasted through a boombox (or whatever listening device works for your generation).

“I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.” - ah, Lloyd Dobler.

Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

Sharing your life, be it with folks in person or throwing details out into the grand WWW void, is a seasonal thing, I’m finding.  Mostly, I’m bursting with things to share:  believe me, life is never dull around here (I could mention things like having to go to the social security office once because they mucked up my birthday when I applied for a marriage name change and how I got to go back three weeks later to ask them if they would pretty please with a cherry on top actually process my application for correction, but hey:  that happens to everyone, right?).  But the content of the activities:  not always so good to share.  Especially when it’s, how would a politician put it, “challenging” and “needing further attention” (a.k.a. “the poo” and “taken care of behind closed doors”).

I love to share stories about my kids.  I realized the other day that I think in a very small way that’s why I procreated:  people who enjoy writing enjoy observing and sharing those observations.  Not that I had kids in order to write a book.  In fact, time for writing is a bit lacking due to the fact that I birth non-self-reliant children - it’s written on their instruction tags, along with “wash with like colors” and “do not leave out in prolonged heat or else may discolor”.  But there’s many stories that shouldn’t be shared.  And though certain things are kept sacred, they color anything else I could write about.

I read so many posts from my friends who gush about children and parenting.  While part of me loves peeking into the glimpses of their lives, another part stomps off into the corner:  “So why is it so rough for me?”  Perhaps they hold back on sharing the Tough Stuff as well, but their personalities seem to be able to compartmentalize or shrug off that stuff, where for me my forehead is flashing “Having.  Trouble.  With.  Emotional.  Toddler.  Be prepared for detour for next six weeks.”

Today, this is the scene I walked in on:

JJ asleep in the chair in the living room.  Why is that a problem?  Well, just as I was downstairs responding to a post from my online class dealing with the postmodern’s inclination to throwing out traditions or cobbling traditions together in a fashion that meets their needs, my toddler was engaging in some postmodern behavior and throwing out a tradition:  that of the nap for the strung-out, overly-emotional person.  After many times of putting him back in his room, many times of hearing the door slam, many times of falling in the floor doing the I Have No Bones dance, many times of yelling “NEVER!” and “NOT TIRED” and “DONTTALKMETHATWAY” and many times of sighing (on both ends), he snuck out to freedom!  Sweet freedom!

And fell asleep.

Currently, he’s sleeping on the couch downstairs - next to me.  He woke up, came downstairs, and passed out.  I took a picture but am too lazy to upload it (although I did upload all the other new pictures:  yay me learning new tricks!).

There are days that are delightful.  There are things he does that crack me up, like convincing my dad that the Hungry Hungry Hippos game needed to be played.

Me:  Dad, what are you doing?

Dad:  I’m putting together this game.

Me:  Why?

Dad:  Because JJ wanted to play it.  He walked me upstairs to the closet and pointed at it very directly.  Man, it was way up on the top shelf!  And I told him that it hadn’t been opened, but he was insistent.”

Me:  Did you ever think there might be a reason that it’s way up high and not opened?

Dad:  . . . . . Ohhhhh.

There are days that he comes home from school so excited to read his new library books that he barely makes it in the house.

And then there are days like we’ve had this week.  Where there are no words:  sunshine, rain, big giant snowball-sized hail crop up at random times.  Or at least the words that could be used might not be so “edifying” (or PG-13.  Casual mentioning of the jubblies is as risque as we should probably go around here).

So I keep walking.  Each day is new, with no mistakes in it - thank you, Anne Shirley.   But sometimes the markings of the previous day dents in the new day, and it’s hard not to give into those grooves.

I leave you with this.  Because who can’t smile at cannibalistic British tykes?

Ps.  I had to laugh.  As HHH fans know, there’s always one hippo who tends to eat more marbles, no matter who’s playing with him.  For us, it’s this hippo. 

Mama Musings | 9 Comments »

Dear Son A,

Do you know what tomorrow is? That’s what your Pappy asked you yesterday. To which you responded: Baph. Just like Mr. Peepers. You also hit things repeatedly just like he does. But I digress.

You responded: Baph. And Pappy said: That’s right! It’s your 2/3s birthday! Which means you have another doctor’s appointment in a month! You seemed a little introspective regarding that. I thought more about how you will be jubbly-free in four months which probably means you might need to eat actual food at some point. Since, you know, you’ll need some sort of nourishment. I suppose. It’s hard to Baph on empty. Although my friend’s mom’s friends juiced everything with the goal of someday living off of air. . . Yeah.

I’d feed you more solids if you would actually process them properly. But you’re a hoarder. You freely share smiles and drool and your political opinion, but the dumpage is lacking. Some would say: hurrah! Less diaper changes! But that whole Einstein equal-and-opposite-reaction thing means that the lackage of the poo creates an increase in the yowling, the hurt tummies, and the gruntage-with-popping-veins-in-the-head action. Perhaps you’ll be able to use those skills as a future American Gladiator: they don’t seem to mind the popping veins and lack of verbage.

Oh, my little Mama’s Boy, some days I don’t know what to do with you. You want to be held. But you want to be held with the caveat that you can use people as your human jungle gym: ah, the personal touch. Frequently after picking you up from the nursery I hear: Wow - I got a work out today. You’re helpful that way - a free personal trainer. Instead of barking at them to work harder, you just pick up the jumping pace. Always the encourager.

You also like to encourage me to pick you up. I walk by: happy noises. I keep walking: cranky noises. If I round the corner: wails and protests and threats to vote for the candidate who will prosecute irresponsible parents. Me thinks that would be Hillary: she does say it takes a village. But she also only had one kid, and I have your brother, aka. Turbo Tot or Dr. Entropy, as Granddaddy likes to call him.

Your brother thinks you’re pretty swell. And so far he doesn’t mind when you take his toys, mostly as long as he can play along or instruct you as to which toys would be suit your level of enjoyment. To which you certainly have an vocal opinion if he chooses wrong and he quickly replaces the toy saying: Sorry, Little A! Sorry! Here! Toy! Be happy! That’s enough! Quiet! That’s enough! Be happy! I can’t imagine where he picked that up.

So far you have no teeth. But you’re working the whole “But I’m Teeeeeeething” angle - like you have since about two months. Another way to be held and loved. But you are making strides in the mobility department. You’ve been army crawling for quite some time, sometimes up on all fours rocking back and forth. Mostly you use your new found moving talents to claw your way to me to, shockingly enough, be held. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve found you at the foot of the stair wailing because “I’ve been left! Alone! And they’re never coming back! And I’m so voting for Hillary, and Granddaddy will never let me hear the end of it, but they forced me to! They did!”

But sometimes you roll simply for the pleasure of it. Or to get a toy. Mostly books. Which you gum into oblivion. Or sometimes you find your favorite toy on the floor: a spoon. It’s the only way I can get anything done in the kitchen. You find such simple joy in looking at the shininess, trying to shove the whole thing in your petite mouth, banging it on the counter. It makes me sing the Mr. Rodger’s song, but don’t worry, darling: your brother will always bring you a spoon. And a fork and knife to match. Because we must match in this house, you know.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »